ot be imagined that Fleurette thought the bed hard. Her bed of
life from childhood had been nubbly. She never dreamed of complaining of
her little room under the stars, and she sat among the cabbages like a
tired lily, quite contented with her material lot. But she drooped and
drooped, and the cough returned and shook her; and Aristide, realizing
the sacredness of his charge, became a prey to anxious terrors.

"Mere Bidoux," said he, "she must have lots of good, nourishing, tender,
underdone beef, good fillets, and _entrecotes saignantes_."

Mme. Bidoux sighed. She had a heart, but she also had a pocket which,
like Aristide's, was not over-filled. "That costs dear, my poor friend,"
she said.

"What does it matter what it costs? It is I who provide," said Aristide,
grandly.

And Aristide gave up tobacco and coffee and the mild refreshment at
cafes essential to the existence of every Frenchman, and degraded his
soul by taking half-franc tips from tourists--a source of income which,
as Director, M. le Directeur, Herr Direktor of the Agence Pujol, he had
hitherto scorned haughtily--in order to provide Fleurette with underdone
beefsteaks.

All his leisure he devoted to her. She represented something that
hitherto had not come into his life--something delicate, tender,
ethereal, something of woman that was exquisitely adorable, apart from
the flesh. Once, as he was sitting in the little shop, she touched his
temple lightly with her fingers.

"Ah, you are good to me, Aristide."

He felt a thrill such as no woman's touch had ever caused to pass
through him--far, far sweeter, cleaner, purer. If the _bon Dieu_ could
have given her to him then and there to be his wife, what bond could
have been holier? But he had bound himself by a sacred obligation. His
friend on his return should find him loyal.

"Who could help being good to you, little Fleurette?" said he. "Even an
Apache would not tread on a lily of the valley!"

"But you put me in water and tend me so carefully."

"So that you can be fresh whenever the dear Reginald comes back."

She sighed. "Tell me what I can do for you, my good Aristide."

"Keep well and happy and be a valiant little woman," said he.

Fleurette tried hard to be valiant; but the effort exhausted her
strength. As the days went on, even Aristide's inexhaustible
conversation failed to distract her from brooding. She lost the trick of
laughter. In the evenings, when he was most with her, she wou